


Keep Trying

by genee



Category: Actor RPF, Kane (Band), Music RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-24
Updated: 2006-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This ain't no peep show.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Trying

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to without_me.

Fucking Chris, with his fucking hat, and his fucking tight jeans and his splayed legs and his fucking smile, fuck, he could practically fuck a guy stupid just by leaning back and picking at the label of his beer, callused fingers dragging through the wet and making Jensen think about this shit when he really doesn't want to, because he's done thinking about it, he's been done thinking about it for ages. Really.

"Fucker," Jensen says, slitting his eyes a little and leaning forward, grinning, empty longnecks knocking together, knocking into scattered shot glasses and chewed up limes and the half-empty bottle of tequila Steve had plunked down on the table before he'd bumped his shoulder into Jensen's and rolled his eyes at Chris and said, "Work this shit out, bro," and wandered off with some guy, sun-bleached dreads and dark ink and Jensen thinks he ought to recognize him, but whatever, it's not like it matters.

Fucking _Steve_.

Everything is always so easy with Steve, and so complicated with Chris, and it's so unfair in so many ways that Jensen has to stop himself from listing them all out, which he could do, has fucking _done_ , because Chris's mouth is moving and Jensen's almost positive he's saying something even though he has no honest idea what. Chris has a goddamn gorgeous mouth, though, wide and wet, pale chapped lips hiding what's inside, all that dark heat, soft and tight and Jensen's always liked the way Chris's chin scrapes at the inside of his thigh when the angle's right, scratch of stubble and Chris's fingers right there, right there, right there, and fuck, Chris is laughing now, head thrown back, and Jensen really wishes he'd been paying closer attention.

Chris's voice is hoarse and slurry and he says, "Don't be jealous now, son. You know he'll come back to you," grinning like he does when he means what he's saying, but not really, not exactly, and Jensen just grins right back.

"Yeah," he says, meeting Chris's eyes. "I _know_ ," because he does, though that's really not the point.

The point is, Jensen and Steve are Jensen and Steve, and Jensen can borrow Steve's board and sing on Steve's record and sleep in Steve's bed, arms and legs all twined together, sweat and spunk and pot smoke in the air, in their mouths, painted over their bodies, and in the morning there's always coffee and oranges and a kiss so sweet it would make his belly ache if it wasn't just the way they were, they way they'd always been, warm and easy and nothing like the long slow burn of being with Chris, of being with Chris _again_.

The point is, Steve is nothing like Chris.

The point is, Chris knows this, and he tosses back another shot anyway, all lazy sprawl and bulky muscles and he hasn't cut his hair even though his show stopped filming and he could, if he wanted to. Chris has always seemed bigger than he is, has always had that, whatever, _presence_ , but he's fucking solid now, condensed, and it's fucking hot, how he uses it, how he's always leaning over, leaning close and just hemming Jensen right in, all spread out underneath him in the back of his truck, or on the cool sheets of some hotel room, or pressed up against a wall somewhere, anywhere, here, brick scratching at Jensen's back and Chris just right there, everywhere, all heavy muscles and throaty whispered words, Jensen's fingers tangled in Chris's hair and Chris's dick pressed hard against his hip, heat like a brand burning through two layers of denim and lighting Jensen's skin on fire.

Jensen licks his lips and looks at Chris across the table, cigarette burning low in his fingers, eyes narrowed, mouth quirked in something that's not quite a smile. Under the table Jensen presses his hand against his dick and wishes hard for things he's too damn old to still be wishing for, and Chris makes some sort of sound low in his throat.

He says, "Boy, we gotta get _gone_ ," and Jensen thumps his free hand down on the edge of the table and swallows the last of his beer. Too many people here, more than there were an hour ago even, tits in every direction, lipstick and cowboy boots and everyone and their momma has a goddamn cell phone with a camera in it now, and Jensen wonders how the hell they're going to work this out, this thing between them, wonders if it's even possible with both of their schedules, with all the publicity and the pressures and then Chris is moving, pulling Jensen up, away from the table and through the crowd, and Jensen would follow even if Chris's fingers weren't wrapped around his wrist, but they are, and it's fucking _hot_.

"I want this," Chris says, Shooter twanging softly through the scratchy speakers in Chris's old truck, and Jensen's heart does something fucked up in his chest, something that makes his eyes close and his stomach lurch, makes him wish he were a little less lit right now, or a little more, or something. "Jen?"

Jensen opens his eyes, watches Chris drive, watches his fingers on the steering wheel, his tongue flicking out over his lips, wet and shadowy. He tries to say something, tries to say he doesn't want to do this again, but he's pretty sure it doesn't come out right. He's pretty sure because he absolutely does want to do this again, wants Chris, has never _stopped_ wanting Chris.

"Fuck," Chris says, looking at him for a little longer than Jensen's entirely comfortable with, and then back at the road and back at Jen, and then, "I love you man, but you hurl in my truck and I'll love you a lot fuckin' less."

"Fuck you," Jensen says, and Chris laughs, stretches his arm across the back of the seat and Jensen feels his insides settle down to where they're supposed to be. Chris cracks the window and Jensen takes a deep breath, says, "Watch the road, man. I ain't gonna hurl, and I _ain't_ dyin' young with you tonight."

They haven't said six words to each other since then, but they're both grinning when they stumble out of Chris's truck and into Steve's kitchen, dark and quiet, big gray cat winding around Chris's feet and a note tacked up on the fridge that says KEEP TRYING in Steve's blocky scrawl, and Jensen tries not to take it personally. He wonders if it's at all legit to add his own, "Gotta piss," and Chris's, "Need help with that, son?" into their running word count, but he knows his answering, "Nah, I got this one," was a little slow in coming, knows Chris knows it, too, sees it in the slow lift of his eyebrow and the way he smirks, kinky fucker, but Jensen really does have to piss like a goddamn racehorse, and he can't be thinking about anything else right now.

He takes a minute after to stare at Steve's note again, thinks about all the things it might mean to Steve, to him, to Chris, and then decides it doesn't matter. Steve wouldn't leave shit like that out if it wasn't important and right now? Fuck, that's really all he needs to know.

Steve's guest room used to be a back porch, and it still feels like that, open and breezy, big old bed in the middle all piled high with quilts, Chris sprawled out on top, hat gone, boots off, one hand behind his head and the other shoved all the way down the open fly of his jeans, dark head of his cock showing above his wrist, hard and shiny and Jensen wants to taste, wants to feel the weight of it in his mouth, on his tongue.

Jensen swallows, wishes he could taste more than the bar, more than booze, more than his own skin. "Chris," he says, and Chris turns toward him, lips parted, sex and more sex and Jensen wonders if Chris even knows he's doing it, has any idea at all what he looks like. "Christian."

"Jensen."

"Mmm," Jensen says, running his hand over the bulge in his jeans. He's not as drunk as he feels, his dick's hard and his skin is on fire and Chris's voice is in his head, _I want this_ , a fuckin' killer contact high. "Mmm," he says again, "I could watch you all night."

Chris reaches a hand towards him, twists his hips a little, his dick sliding against his belly and fuck, Chris still has the thickest dick he's ever seen up close like this. "Ain't no peep show, boy," Chris says, and Jensen strips out of his clothes, soft sounds of cotton on skin, of denim dropping to the floor, of Chris's breath caught in his throat, Jensen's, too, and he's tugging off Chris's jeans and feeling his way back up, shoulders pressing against Chris's thighs and the way Chris tastes right there, the way he arches up, the way he smells, fuck, sweat and sex and something else, something hot and blue and _Chris_.

Jensen wraps his fingers around Chris's dick and licks lower, soft soft skin and Chris's heel scraping along his spine, Chris's fingers twisting in the sheets and Jensen closes his eyes and keeps going, tight swirl of skin under his tongue, heady and sweet, Chris's voice rasping above him, "I _said_ , this ain't no peep show," but this is what Jensen wants, Chris, just like this, spread out and coming apart, fucked stupid before they've even really gotten started.

Chris, thrashing around in Steve's guest room, making noises Jensen's only ever heard come out of his own mouth and batting Jensen's hand away from his dick because, "Fuck, oh, god _damn_ it, Jen," and Jensen knows if he wants to get fucked tonight he should stop now, stop sucking and licking and pressing in and in and in, and any other night he would, Chris fucks like a damn dream, but tonight he wants this more.

Tonight he wants Chris twisting on his tongue, on his fingers, spitslick and pushed in deep, slow and hot and Jensen pulls away a little just to see, sucks a bruise into Chris's thigh and licks at his own palm, his own wrist, traces of lime and salt and Chris's mouth, smiling, saying, "Waste not, brother," and licking stray drops of spilled tequila from Jensen's skin.

He wants more of that taste now, bites along the smooth line of muscle at Chris's hip, follows the wet trail of pre-come on Chris's stomach, soft hair matted and sticky and Chris cursing him out, his voice shot to hell and so sexy Jensen can't help grinding down even as Chris hauls him up, bites at Jensen's jaw and licks into his mouth, one hand at the back of Jensen's neck and the other digging into Jensen's hip, holding him right where he is.

Chris kisses like he fucks, like he does everything, and it's so damn intense Jensen can hardly focus, his dick sliding in the hot crease of Chris's ass and it's good, so good, heat and friction and then Chris reaches for the lube and condoms they both know are in the nightstand, hips twisting, pressing, and Jensen tries to move with him, but holy _god_ , Chris is slick and open and Jensen's whole body stills, freezes, breath caught in his throat and Chris's eyes locked on his because Jensen's dick is right there, right the fuck there and it would be easy, so easy, and so goddamn good. He feels himself start to shake, muscles shot through with adrenaline and need, teeth sinking into his lower lip, coppery and bright and Chris's eyes still sparking into his, pupils blown and _fuck_ , Chris raises his eyebrow and rocks his hips and Jensen's almost inside him, almost, just barely, and it's so fucking good, the way it feels, the way Chris throws his head back and growls low in his throat and keeps rocking right there, Chris's dick trapped between them and Jensen so close to the edge.

Chris says, "Don't come, fuck, _fuck_ , don't come," and Jensen's not sure which of them he's talking to, but then it doesn't matter because Chris wraps his leg around Jensen's hips and flips them right the fuck over, Jensen flat on his back and Chris looming over him, Chris's voice in his ear, "Later, later," sweat dripping off his forehead and his dick sliding against Jensen's, blood-dark and already pulsing, thick spurts of come everywhere, Jensen's cheek, Chris's shoulder, splash of bitter white Jensen leans up to taste, his dick sliding in the groove of Chris's hip, in Chris's come, blinding heat behind his eyes and Jensen's coming too, fingers wound through Chris's hair and the dirtiest words Jensen's ever heard falling from Chris's lips.

It's not quite afternoon when Jensen wakes up, Steve's cat curled up on the window seat and Chris still twisted half around him, fucked out and gorgeous and Jensen doesn't remember falling asleep like this, but then again, Jensen doesn't remember falling asleep at all. The last thing he remembers is licking come into Chris's mouth and whispering against his lips, _waste not, brother_ , soft huff of Chris's laugh and then a kiss that seemed to go on forever.

Jensen reaches for the quilt at the bottom of the bed and Chris mumbles in his sleep and shifts around, scratch of stubble over Jensen's ribs and Chris's hand sliding up his arm, fingers wrapping around Jensen's bicep and holding tight. "Jen," Chris sighs, and Jensen scratches at the dried come on his belly, threads his fingers through Chris's hair. The cat stretches and yawns, one ear swiveled toward the door, and Jensen notices the bottled water on the nightstand that wasn't there last night, knows Steve's been there, is maybe asleep upstairs and maybe not, but either way there will be good coffee in the kitchen and a new note tacked up on the fridge, the rest of the day ahead of them to make sure they get it right.

 

\-- End --


End file.
